"My dear father," his senior warden had once said to him, "I doubt if most priests put as much work into their whole lives as you do into one celebration."
"I know," replied Father Algarcife slowly. "If I have left anything undone it has been from oversight, not fear of labor."
The warden smiled.
"Your life is a proof of your industry as well as your faith," he responded. "Only a man who loves his religion better than his life would risk himself daily. It is your great hold upon your people. They believe in you."
"Yes, yes," said the other.
"But I have wanted to warn you," continued the warden. "It cannot last. Give yourself rest."
Father Algarcife shook his head.
"I rest only when I am working," he answered, and he added, a little wistfully, "The parish bears witness that I have done my best by the charge."
The warden, touched by the wistfulness, lowered his eyes. "That you have done any man's best," he returned.
"Thank you," said Father Algarcife. Then he passed into the sacristy to listen to the confession of a parishioner.